


At the End of an Age

by MaxCassius



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxCassius/pseuds/MaxCassius
Summary: Moving this on over from an aaaancient fanfic.net account I used to have. Figured if anything I'd keep this updated here.An exploration of the Dragon Age series from the eyes of a Circle originating Warden, made original from a headcannon twist of "what if Loghain and his wife would have had one other daughter, gifted/cursed with magic? Drama ensues".





	1. Reaching for Freedom

Chapter One: Reaching for Freedom

"H-hey! Did you hear? There's a Grey Warden here in the tower!"

I turned at the familiar, nerve hitched sound of my friend Jowan's voice. I had been called for my Harrowing, passed, and become a full mage of the Circle of Magi only two days ago, but Jowan had not yet been called to take his, although he had been brought here earlier than me. He was still an apprentice, when those he had seen arrive were becoming mages.

Ideally, every apprentice who entered the tower for teaching would one day take their Harrowing and become a mage. In reality, however, the First Enchanter was allowed to decide if someone was too, say, dangerous to be allowed to become a mage. The only paths left for them, was to be forced into the Rite of Tranquility, a mysterious rite that split the mage from their connection to the Fade, as well as their emotions and dreams, or execution by the templars for resisting.

So, needless to say, the longer Jowan had to wait, the more paranoid he became.

"A Grey Warden?" I couldn't keep the surprise – and skepticism, as rumors ran wild around the tower, like the one that there were hidden passages that had kept the templars scouring the tower down to every last nook for weeks – out of my voice. "Ferelden doesn't exactly have a lot of them, right? What's one doing wasting his time here?"

Grey Wardens. Thedas's ancient and legendary defenders. Men and women, humans, elves, and dwarves, that stood against the masses of darkspawn and their virulent corruption. Legend said that these skilled warriors were the only ones that could put a stop to a dreaded Blight, an en masse demonic march on the surface led by one of the old Tvinter gods, corrupted by the darkspawn's touch.

The Circle's library had books on absolutely everything.

But... That's what the Warden's presence here in Kinloch Hold had to mean. A new Blight, the first in centuries.

If that was so, then the armies of Ferelden were looking for mages.

And therein lay my ticket out of this place. This cage I was made to call home.

"Where are they?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager. True, Jowan wasn't the brightest torch, so he wasn't exactly the most likely to question what I was doing. But the last thing I needed was him coming with me. Or, more like, trying to. The boy usually had good intentions, but he pretty much always went wrong somewhere between the conception of his idea and the execution of it. I attracted enough trouble on my own, without his black cat bad luck.

"The Warden's with Irving and the Knight-Commander in Irving's office," Jowan replied, tilting his head curiously. "What are you going to-"

I smiled and brushed past Jowan. I had hoped the three would be together. Good. I could get all the approval I would need in one go.

As I hurried down the arc of the tower's hall, past mage's quarters towards First Enchanter Irving's office, I couldn't shake the thought of this place being nothing more than a cage I was bullied into calling my home. The word "cage" throbbed like a drum in my head, and I felt a coil of restlessness burn at the back of my throat, felt the unwinding of a surprisingly angry serpent of cold hatred in my stomach. I hadn't thought about what the Circle of Magi really was in a long time. I hadn't really given much recognition to how much I hated it, with its meticulous order, the stuffiness of being trapped behind stone walls, down to the invisible shackles of the stigma that went with being a mage. Most of the mundane citizens of Thedas at large, and even our own templar guards, feared and hated us. Some of the templars used their position as an excuse to inflict horrendous abuses and perversions on their charges.

The power was, in the end, in the hands of the templars, no matter what we mages could do. They had magic-nullifying, mana-draining abilities, swords, heavy armor, and a holy mandate that they took very seriously. We were merely seen as the walking damned, our magic a stamp of the Maker's disapproval, and we were the oppressed. No one wanted to be caught helping a mage and to face judgment at the hands of the Chantry and the templars.

Never mind that the templars were supposed to help protect us from our own power as well as protect others from us. A good handful of them seemed to forget that when they wished.

My blue mages robes whispered against my legs as I walked, the gold braid at the edges glinting in the torchlight that lit the hall. So far, I had escaped rape and beatings. And though such things weren't as common in Ferelden, I heard, as in other places, I had been here since I was six, so I had a sneaking suspicion that a certain templar might have had something to do with it...

Speaking of...

"Cullen," I smiled as I greeted him. The young templar stood watch outside the door to Irving's office. His brown eyes flicked down to meet my gaze, and a faint blush colored his angular cheeks.

"Rowan," he replied, inclining his head in formal greeting, his short, dirty blond hair dark in the flickering firelight.

Cullen had come here years ago, as a young recruit, sent to Kinloch Hold for final training. I had been twelve, he had been about fifteen. Back then, he hadn't been so formal. He had simply been an awkward young man in a strange new place, surrounded by dozens of people that the Chantry, which would have all but raised him, said were dangerous, vile sinners, rejected and damned by the very hand of their Maker before they were ever born.

And despite all that, and the magical stamp of holy rejection I carried on my soul, he had accepted the hand of friendship that I, at the time a lonely apprentice, had offered him.

Good thing, too, or Jowan would have been my only friend growing up. Cullen had always been my steady rock of reason and sanity to counter Jowan's nervous flightiness. And, when his superiors had their backs turned, he had passed along some of his training in sword and knifeplay to me. Maybe that particular interest was in my blood, because I had taken to blades like a mabari on the hunt. Cullen, before taking his final vows to the order, had given me an enchanted dagger as a gift. Pale white dragonbone with a decorative dragon carved as the handle. It was a templar's blade. It nullified any magic cast at it.

I really doubt other mages ever had such a glowing report to give a templar.

"I'm sorry," Cullen began, raising his head and softly clearing his throat, awkwardly casting his gaze about the hall, as though looking for anywhere to look but into my eyes. It was a little bit cute. "But I don't know if I can let you in there, if you're here to see the First Enchanter. He has," He seemed to struggle for the word he was looking for. "An important guest. I don't think he would want to be interrupted."

"Actually, his guest is why I'm here." Though the days of our easy, secret camaraderie were years in the past now that Cullen had taken his vows and a large portion of his devotion had been turned to the order's mandate, I held hope that he still held the same... Respect for me as I did for him. Or that he would at least do me a small favor in honor of our friendship. I felt pretty certain he would not deny me an honest, reasonable request. "He's recruiting, right? The Warden? Something's going on outside, and someone wants mages. That's really the only reason for a mundane to come here."

"I... Haven't been informed of the details," Cullen replied, but the uncomfortable tone of his voice and the shift of his weight that set the heavy silver plate that was a templar staple clanking gave me the answer I needed. Poor Cullen, he'd never been able to lie to me. When would these noble templars learn that too much virtue only ever got you in trouble?

"I want to volunteer." As a willing recruit of the militant templar order, he would understand an urge to defend Ferelden. "I'll enlist. Mages give any army an advantage, right? All the better that I'm actually okay with fighting alongside mundanes."

A grim smile tugged my lips, and I pulled my little trump card. "Besides," I shifted aside my robes to show the pommel of the dagger he'd given me, strapped to my belt. "I've got more to offer them than your average mage would." Spellswords were rare. An arcane warrior would be an unexpected and incredibly valuable tool on the battlefield.

I was counting on Cullen not to let me down, not to deny me this. All he needed to do was step aside, let me speak to the men in charge.

Cullen hesitated, then moved to let me by with a little incline of his head.

"Just remember, it's your fault if you get in trouble for intruding."

I just grinned and reached for the thick iron handle on the bolted wooden door.

I was in.

First Enchanter Irving stood by his desk in his dark, mossy green robes, his grizzled mane of iron grey hair and chest-length beard obscuring most of his ancient face. He was the oldest resident of Kinloch Hold, and was the long-time face of the Circle tower.

Beside him stood Knight-Commander Greagoir, who, though he was nearly as old, had aged much more gracefully, his silver hair and beard short and neatly kept, with faint worry lines around his eyes and mouth. Irving was the only one still living in the tower that had been around to know what things had been like before our fair-minded, steady Greagoir. The head of the templars might live and breathe the mantra of the order, but he also kept the knowledge that the mages were his charges as well as his prisoners close to his heart. He was a good man.

I assumed that the man that stood opposite them, of dusky skin, a dark brown ponytail, and one very odd set of armor, was the Grey Warden.

All three sets of eyes turned to me the moment I slipped into the room.

"Ah, Rowan," Irving greeted me with the tired tone of a grandparent greeting a rambunctious toddler. "What is it you want, child?"

Irving had a reluctant patience for me. Maker knew why. Greagoir, however, had no such issue.

"This is important business, mage," he said sharply. "You should leave."

"Don't be so hasty, Knight-Commander." The Grey Warden's tone was hard to describe. Polite, but backed with authority, tempered by the wisdom to keep it tucked away, so as not to rumple the pride of those used to being in power. "I think we can spare a moment to hear what this girl has to say."

Surprising. But, well, I knew a chance when I saw it, and I had never been one to just sit idle.

"When I heard a Grey Warden was here, I figured something had to be wrong on the outside. If someone's recruiting mages... I volunteer." I met both Irving's assessing, glitttering dark gaze and Greagoir's stony, highly disapproving one.

"We already have a dozen mages lined up to leave. Its unnecessary to send more," Greagoir said stiffly.

"The king's army needs all the help it can get, Ser Greagoir," the Warden cut across suggestively. "If the girl wishes to go fight-" He turned to me, bobbing his head in a brief, polite bow. "Excuse my poor manners. I am Duncan of the Grey Wardens. I have been sent here to seek aid from mages for King Cailan's army."

The king's own army. That meant my father would be there.

"Why's the King's army gathering?" My heart was pounding. If I could convince Greagoir and Irving to let me leave with Duncan, I would get to see my father again, for the first time since I was a child.

"A horde of darkspawn is gathering in the south, in the Korcari Wilds. My fellow Wardens and I believe that a Blight is imminent. My Wardens and the army are already there. I'm..." he seemed to search for the right words. "Seeking more, last minute assistance."

By the Maker, was I a brilliant guesser.

Irving's expression was serious. At least someone didn't think I was just some crazy, immature child.

"You heard him, Rowan. Are you certain you wish to face these creatures? You are aware that even if they don't attack you, you can still catch the corruption and die. And that is a slow, painful death." He hesitated. "And are you sure you can deal with the other factors, once you arrive?"

I wasn't at all sure that the bitterness that rose and choked the back of my throat and chilled my smile was a good thing, but it sure felt good. How sweet. The First Enchanter was concerned whether or not I could handle seeing the man who had turned me over to the templars and the Circle, then never again contacted me. Not even one letter.

Could I handle it? I'd lived with worse. In fact, I was dying to meet him, now that I'd realized this little detail. I wanted to show him that he could proud of his youngest daughter, just like he was proud of his first.

"I haven't changed my mind," I pressed steadily. "This is what I want. If it means my death, well, at least I'll make damn sure to take some of those monsters with me." There. That should explain away the grim smile.

Irving and Greagoir exchanged a look.

"The child wants to strike out into the world, Greagoir. She's young, can you blame her for wanting to leave the tower?"

"Yes," Greagoir replied dryly. "I'm sure quite a few of us, mages and templars alike, would love to leave sometimes. But can we really go sending out mages in troves? Especially one who asks to leave, who may just be using the chaos to meet up with maleficarum?"

Okay, now that was just insulting.

"I am not a blood mage!" I objected incredulously. "And how could I be meeting up with anyone at all? You read the only letters I've sent or received, and I only have the one correspondent!" One who could definitely never be a blood mage. "Besides, he hasn't written in about a month." I could feel the heat of an embarrassed flush on my cheeks. I missed my friend on the outside, even if, considering who we both were, we would never admit to being my friend anywhere other than in paper and ink.

"The cause is noble, and Rowan has never lied or given any cause to even distrust her intentions, much less suspect them." Irving pointed out.

"You know the rumors that have been flying around the tower," Greagoir said darkly. "You have even agreed that they peg her friend Jowan as a blood mage."

That stopped my tongue cold.

"What? J-Jowan? A blood mage?" The pieces just didn't fit together in my head. At all. Poor, nervous, kind-hearted Jowan, making blood sacrifices all in the name of power? With the resentment he'd felt for his pious mother and how she had ended up forcing his father to send their little "mistake" away to the Chantry, calling him a curse, an abomination waiting to happen?

By the Void, what was going through Bad Luck Jowan's head, if he was thinking he could handle dealing with demons?

Irving was slow to respond to that. I was being given one last crash-course, it seemed. A lesson to teach me just how much I could hate delay and indecision and inaction.

"All the signs we have seen, do point to it," he finally admitted. "The Knight-Commander and I were discussing the best course of action to-"

The door behind me crashed open, and a grim looking Cullen burst in with an older templar who looked so wound up he seemed likely to explode on contact, like one of my fireballs.

"I apologize for the interruption," the templar said, Cullen standing at his shoulder. "But we have an issue. The basement door is unlocked and the sentries are engaged." That meant whoever had gotten down there didn't have a templar escort to nullify the guardian statues. "I can't help but feel that the repository may be at risk."

The repository. The place the Circle stored samples of blood it collected from each apprentice it housed, kept so that, should a mageling run away, the templars could hunt him down. The vials of blood – phylacteries – were sent to a central repository in Ferelden's capital, Denerim, as apprentices passed their Harrowings and proved themselves worthy and able mages of the Circle. Until then, they were kept here in the basement of Kinloch Hold.

And there was a rumor, one that even the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter believed true, of a blood mage in the tower. An apprentice.

"Jowan," I hissed under my breath, turning and dodging past the pair of templars and breaking into a run off down the hall. "What in the Maker's name do you think you're doing?"

Sometimes, as much as we might wish it so, coincidences just never worked out.

Mages' heads poked out of their rooms as my standard Circle issue heeled, lace-up boots clacked against the stone flooras I ran. The Circle was all about order and control. Any running was usually reserved for antsy young apprentices or the templars in a crisis. A mage running full speed – as fast as this Void spawned robe-and-boot combination would let me – being chased by templars – and I could hear the heavy clamor of their plate as they ran after me – Greagoir himself shouting calling out commands for me to "halt", Cullen demanding to know if I was "out of my Maker given mind", was as exciting as it got.

I easily outran the templars in their heavy armor. I had to wonder how they ever managed to actually catch and combat the mages they found. Their size, armor, and weapons all put them at a disadvantage. All a mage would have to do was keep to crowded places, run, and to not get themselves cornered.

Listen to yourself, my mind chided. Are you planning on trying to escape if they don't let you leave?

Maybe.

Racing through the library and the hall that bisected the stockroom, I slammed open the third floor door and hurried down the first flight of stairs, winging a prayer to Andraste that I didn't slip. If the cold stone steps didn't break my neck, Greagoir would when he caught me.

I didn't falter. I burst onto the second floor, a lot more distance between myself and my pursuers, startling loitering groups of apprentices and their templar sentinels as I bolted past their rooms, down another set of stairs, past the training acloves in the lesser first floor library, and skidded, panting, to a halt in the main hall, before the heavy basement doors.

Just as Jowan emerged, followed by a woman wearing the muted red and gold robes of a Chantry initiate.

"J-Jowan!" I snapped, making him nearly jump out of his skin as he shut the heavy wooden door, letting out a frigid gust of stale air. "Andraste's flaming sword, man! What are you doing?"

"Rowan." The way he said my name didn't sound like that nervous apprentice I'd known for years. The stammer still shook at the foundations, but his tone had picked up some stone walls of finality and resignation. His grey eyes held the same emotions. It was the first time I could ever remember being able to see Jowan as a man, not some jumpy little boy. "I'd hoped..." He paused, seemed to think the better of what he was starting to say, shaking his head. "You wouldn't understand."

Okay, so maybe even as a man, he could be infuriating.

"You think I wouldn't understand wanting to leave here? The prospect of living and dying here doesn't thrill me, you know. Even a hound gets let out of his cage to run and hunt," Ohh, not the best analogy when everyone was already scared of mages. Good thing I'd left the templars in the dust on the stairs. "But, no matter how much I hate it, I think!" I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. "You don't chew through the leash when your master has bigger and better dogs than you!"

Speaking of, I could hear the templars clattering up behind me, finally catching up.

Jowan backed up, reaching for the initiate's hand. She clung to him, as though she could shield him and whisk him away by sheer force of will alone.

"They were going to perform the Rite of Tranquility on him!" she cried urgently. "I saw the order on Greagoir's desk, and Irving had already signed it! Jowan's your friend, right? You wouldn't want all his emotions and dreams taken away, would you? We had to destroy it! So we could run away together and live in peace. Without magic!"

Ah. So this was the girl Jowan had been seeing. And to think, I'd been doubting her existence. But, by the Maker, a Chantry initiate? Now that was just poking a stick in the eye of the templar order, stealing one of their priests and shredding her vow of chastity like so many gossamer fibers.

Maybe they were being truthful. Maybe this had nothing to do with any forbidden arts, just forbidden love.

"Shh, Lily," Jowan's affection was all for her as he turned warily back to me. "Are you here to help the templars?"

He really thought I didn't understand. Jowan didn't think I knew what it was like to care for someone so much you gave up on simplicity and selfish desires for them. Unbidden, an image of Cullen came to mind, the first time he had reached for my hand, recruit and apprentice, as friends, to slip me away from a sermon on how magic was a curse in the chapel. The endless evenings of sneaking off to talk and train. The hurt when he had dedicated himself to the templars and we couldn't do those things anymore. How afterward, I had begun humbly bowing my head to the templar's control, no longer flouting the rules in any way and burying my resentment of this guilded cage in a shallow grave. And, finally, how the morning after my Harrowing he had told me how grateful he was that I had been able to pass, because Greagoir had chosen him to be the one to strike the killing blow should I fail and become possessed.

No. I knew. More than Jowan would ever understand.

"I'm not," I assured him. "You're..." I hesitated. "Jowan? Are you a blood mage?"

Before he could answer, Greagoir, Cullen, the other templar, and a wheezing Irving had surrounded us.

"Jowan," Greagoir began grimly. "The punishment for destroying your phylactery is death... But return quietly and allow us to take another sample of your blood, and we will reconsider this, and allow you to live and be made Tranquil." The look on Jowan's face said plainly this was unacceptable. I couldn't help but notice they had already decided he must have destroyed his phylactery, even though Lily had admitted to me that they had, Greagoir didn't know that. "This initiate, however." He turned to Lily, his countenance steely. Yeah, the templars didn't take kindly to "traitors" in their Chantry. "She has betrayed the Chantry, broken her vows, and flouted our laws by assisting a suspected blood mage."

Lily nearly wilted in Jowan's shadow as Greagoir turned to Cullen and the other templar. "Arrest her and take her to Aeonar."

The initiate, only a girl, really, went as white as a sheet and took an unsteady step back.

"A-Aeonar? T-the mage prison? No, p-please-"

"You won't touch her!" Jowan put himself in front of Lily as the templars advanced, whipping a knife out of his robes and plunging it into his hand. As blood surged forth, he quickly, feverishly, began to utter a chant.

My heart dropped. Maleficar. So, it was true. There was only one future in store for Jowan now, especially as he was about to use blood magic on templars.

I didn't know blood magic. I didn't know what kind of spell he was casting. What I did know was that I wasn't willing to wait and just find out. I uttered a quick, quiet spell of my own, and a weak, flickering blue barrier snapped up around Jowan.

I was a pyromancer. I had learned quickly and painfully in my training that only fire spells turned out well with me, but a feeble shield against whatever spell Jowan was casting was better than none at all. His spell shattered my anti-magic barrier like a pane of stained glass, but I hope that the power it took to do it had at least weakened the spell.

An instant later, an invisible force slammed into my chest, rushing over me to hit the surrounding templars and Irving too. I flew back like I had been swatted by the Maker's own hand, fell hard on something cold and smooth, hit my head on it, and blacked out with a ringing in my ears.


	2. A Soldier Now

Chapter Two: A Soldier Now

Okay. I liked blood magic even less now.

My eyes fluttered open and, once I blinked away the spinning double vision, I looked around to find that Jowan had already vanished, but Lily stood in the corner by the basement door, hands folded to her mouth, sobbing "I'm so sorry".

I was surprised that she hadn't taken her chance to flee too, knowing that execution or Aeonar were all that awaited her. I guess Jowan's blood magic had been news to her too, shocking her into staying, or she felt she deserved whatever punishment the templars had in store. Brave, for a Chantry initiate. I had to wonder if she was feeling the same wrong-footed, hollowed out chill I was feeling inside.

Something was digging into my hip. I shifted, almost pitching over off of the uneven surface.

By the Maker...

Looking down to see what on Thedas I was laying on, I found that I must have been thrown into Greagoir. Slamming headfirst into his breastplate had knocked me out, before the force of Jowan's spell had knocked him out, and I had landed on top of him. With a strangled yelp, I threw myself to the floor. Thank the Maker he'd still been unconscious. I propped my elbow on the stone and rested my head on my palm.

Excitement just didn't go well in the Circle.

"A-are you okay?" Lily stammered when she saw that I was moving.

I nodded vaguely, sitting up and reaching over to Cullen, pressing my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. I mentally chided myself for the anxiety that choked the back of my throat.

"They're not dead, are they?" Lily sounded breathless. Yeah, the more I saw of her, the more I believed she'd had no idea at all about Jowan.

I felt Cullen's pulse throb against my fingertips and I sagged in relief. The Knight-Commander, the First Enchanter, they were people important to the Circle, yes. But not people important to me. They were merely transitory figures. Cullen was no transitory figure.

"No, no, they're not." No sooner had I said that then Cullen stirred. I jerked back so fast my knuckles rapped painfully against the neck of his breastplate. Shaking them out, I watched in silence as first he, then Greagoir and the other templar roused themselves and began to look around, to take in this new scene.

They weren't going to like this.

"The blood mage," Greagoir pressed urgently as he hauled himself to his feet. "Where is he?"

I followed their lead and stood, moving over to check on the still-downed Irving as he gave a pained groan. Old man might have broken a hip in the fall or something.

"Jowan got away," I told the templars as I helped Irving – who was, surprisingly, completely fine, if winded – to his feet. "But he couldn't have gotten very far just yet. You guys might wanna hurry up and get on that." Yupp, and pay no mind to me or poor Lily, please and thank you.

Unfortunately, I might as well have left out the suggestion. Which was probably a good thing, as the templars tended not to take well to smart-mouthed mages.

Or... Maybe not such a good thing.

"You helped a blood mage escape!" Greagoir snarled. "And you expect us to believe you had no involvement in his actions?"

Wait, what? How did I help Jowan escape? And sure, I was certainly the one who had summoned a Warden to the tower, for the express purpose of giving Jowan the distraction he needed to destroy his phylactery and run off with his lover.

"Of course!" I smacked my forehead as though I was remembering some crucial detail. "Yes, Knight-Commander, I was Jowan's accomplice. Arrest me now and let my execution be an example to naïve mages who think they're above the law." Offended sarcasm dripped from my tongue, and Greagoir's dark expression told me he heard it and didn't appreciate it in the slightest.

"Really," I sighed, speaking earnestly now. "I had no idea he was going to do any of this. Certainly no idea he was tapping into blood magic." Hurt seeped into my voice at the end there, I couldn't stop it.

"But you didn't move to help us capture him either, did you," Greagoir pointed out. Though I knew the Knight-Commander was much more fair than this when he wasn't pissed off, I couldn't help but feel myself falling to the defensive. The serpent of hatred lurking beneath my heart hissed.

"No. He's my friend, I wasn't about to hand him over to his executioners. Besides," I shook my head. "Just because I didn't throw myself at a blood mage doesn't mean I am a maleficar myself, or that I approve of blood magic." I just happened to believe that loyalty didn't disappear, years of friendly history didn't erase, because of one stupid little mistake.

Well, maybe his mistake wasn't exactly "little". Oh well, my point stood.

"And yet you moved to defend him?" the templar pressed, anger hardening his words. Cullen's eyes flicked to him, but he wisely said nothing. I didn't blame him. Ha, more like I was thrilled for that little evidence that he didn't believe I would do such a thing. Greagoir was his superior, and he wasn't about to listen to any words condoning what I'd done. It would only make him angrier to hear one of his own men supporting me.

"That barrier was to protect you from whatever spell he was trying to cast," I tried for patience. There was no way the non-mage templar could tell what my spell had been. "It wouldn't have done the least bit of good against your blades." I leveled my gaze at him and continued icily, noticing Duncan seeming to morph out of the shadows from the hall. "Do not presume to tell me what spell I was casting, Ser."

Cullen looked relieved, taking my words at face value as confirmation of what he had originally believed, but Greagoir – thankfully ignoring my shot of insolence – looked to Irving for confirmation, and didn't turn his attention until he got the First Enchanter's nod of assurance.

"You don't seem to regret his escape."

"You're right." I held Greagoir's returned gaze, fighting down the way his stare made me want to cringe. "Jowan's been my friend for years. He made a stupid choice, and considering what you and your Chantry would have done to him for it... If my standing aside gives him a chance to turn around... Well, I'd do it again."

This probably wasn't going to go over well for me. If I wanted to escape execution myself, in the name of "someone must be punished", then I really should have been telling the templars what they wanted to hear, bowing and scraping. But... I couldn't. Greagoir's accusations were really pissing me off.

And I was beginning to suspect I might be tired of being the good little Circle mage that cowered before the templars. Do with me what they will, I was tired of eating my pride.

"Then you know what the consequences for your actions are," Greagoir said, finality weighing heavy on his voice.

Yes, indeed I was familiar with the punishment for those who aided in a blood mage's escape. I crossed my arms across my chest and shrugged, silently telling my racing heart to shut up and take it like a mage.

"Wait, Knight-Commander," Duncan interjected carefully, stepping forward. "I say you let the girl come with me."

Greagoir did a stunned double take. "What? Why in the name of Andraste would I do such a thing? This mage's actions – or inaction – led to the escape of a maleficar, a dangerous criminal! She and the initiate are to be punished! Why would I allow her to walk away from here, and rewarded, no less! That is the exact thing she came to us asking for!"

"You plan to execute this mage. She wishes to join the king's army to fight darkspawn. In all likelihood, that will result in her death as well, as Irving said earlier. In this way, wouldn't she receive the punishment you deem fit, and serve her country in doing so?" Duncan shrugged a little. "Besides, I see no crime here. Merely loyalty to a friend that stands fast in the face of almost certain death. We need that kind of brotherhood. There should be more people so loyal in all of Ferelden."

Greagoir's gaze was hard. I had to give Duncan some silent applause for not backing down, not even flinching. "And if she survives?"

"Then I would say she has earned the right to a second chance, but in the end, that would be your decision, as all mages will be returned to the tower," Duncan replied diplomatically.

The Knight-Commander hesitated, eyeing me up in silence for a long, agonizing moment.

"All right," he conceded at last. "She can go."

An hour later, I was back in my quarters, staring at my reflection in the mirror, taking in all the features that clearly marked me as my father's daughter. Everything that served as a daily reminder of the man who had given me up: pale skin, chin length night black hair, and eyes such a pale, piercing blue they were almost a colorless silver, all in a face identical to Queen Anora Theirin.

Anyone who had even the quietest whisper of knowledge could tell that I was Loghain Mac Tir's younger daughter. I was stamped, plain for the eye to see, as the Hero of the River Dane's mage child, and that was probably what had kept Loghain away, to lessen the chance of someone putting together the pieces. Anora, my elder sister and mirror image with the coloring of a summer sunrise to my winter night, had not contacted me either. I was an embarrassment for the Teyrn of Gwaren and the queen, and, as a mage, potentially even politically dangerous.

And I was about to leave the tower and come out to play.

I shoved the bitterness under once more, turning and grabbing my small pack off of my cot. There would be no place for those emotions on the road with Duncan. With so much to prove, I couldn't afford to behave like some spurned child, as good as my gut kept telling me it might feel to act like one.

I tucked the little pack into the satchel at my hip and went to find Duncan and the troop of other mages. We would be setting out for the south soon.

I almost walked right into Cullen.

I staggered back a little, both in surprise and to get a better look at him. It was... Startling to realize that this may be the last time I would see him. Comforting, though, to see that he looked as awkward as he always did when he was around me.

"Hey, if it isn't my favorite templar," I said lightly, making him blush. Maker, it was wrong to tease him, but so damn easy. "What can I do for you, Cullen? You know I need to get going."

"I-I know," he mumbled uncomfortably, fumbling at his sword belt. "I just... Here. This will be more useful to you on your journey than it will be to me here."

He dropped into my hand an ice cold silver flask, the holy flaming sword of Andraste's templars embossed on both smooth sides.

I felt my brows raise of their own accord. This was a gift from the First Enchanter to every templar recruit, a flash that would always ensure they had cold water, no matter the weather.

"You sure about this, Cullen?" I asked, feeling a bit of a blush creeping onto my own cheeks. "What happens if someone finds out you don't have this?"

Cullen shrugged, avoiding making eye contact with me. "Nothing. And, regardless, I don't think anyone's sending me mage hunting anytime soon."

Unspoken words hovered between us then. They've seen how I look at you.

Mutely, I nodded my thanks and tucked it into my satchel.

"Rowan?" I looked up into those honest eyes. "Take care of yourself."

Damn it, no. he would not make me cry. I was leaving this place. It was a good thing. That he'd refrained from giving me the Maker's blessing or anything was funny enough to me that I managed to keep my senses.

"You too, Cullen." I was proud to note that my voice was steady, letting the goodbye lie unspoken.

And that was the first time, in far too long, that we shared a smile.

Duncan and the other dozen mages were already by the doors.

"Ready to depart?" the Warden-Commander asked briskly. At my nod, the templar guards swung open the massive front doors of the tower and Duncan led the group of us down the sloping lawn to the docks under the blinding afternoon sun.

Many of the mages in our little band shielded their eyes with their hands and cast their eyes down, hiding from the brightness after the eternal gloom of Kinloch Hold. I squinted my eyes against the onslaught of natural light and threw my head back to feel the warmth of the sun's rays beating down and the countering chill of the fishy breeze off Lake Calenhad, grinning like a fool. Finally, everything I had spent eleven years hoping for.

Freedom.


	3. Family Values

Chapter Three: Family Values

The ruins of Ostagar rose up from the dark earth and ghostly mists of the Kocari Wilds like the sun bleached ribs of a skeleton. The shouts of soldiers echoed on the morning air, breaking the stillness that gripped my traveling companions as we approached in silence.

Having been thoroughly rejected by the other mages present – more senior enchanters than myself, such as the crabby and bald Uldred and the quiet and grandmotherly healer, Wynne – I walked at the front of the band of mages, beside Duncan. After managing to coax, or maybe annoy, the Grey Warden into conversation on the week-long hike, I'd found him to be a lot more friendly and likeable than I had first thought, even if the things he talked about most were darkspawn – and Maker, was he painting lovely images of them – and battle preparations. He was a warrior and a Warden, it was to be expected. Luckily, my origins had led me to study such things in the Circle, and I could hold up my end well enough.

I couldn't help but notice he seemed troubled. Not that I expected a Warden to confide his concerns in a teenage mage, I didn't. But it did make me wonder what exactly he wasn't saying.

Whatever it was, it didn't help with my expectations of survival.

I entered the gates at his side, under the wary gaze of the soldiers that stood sentinel at either edge of the highway at the archway entrance to the fort. In fact, I had the strong suspicion that it was because I was standing so close to him that the templars that immediately swooped in – a messenger had been sent ahead to Ostagar on Duncan's horse to warn the encampment of the arrival of more mages – didn't drag me off to the mage's area.

I couldn't help but feel a twitch of annoyance. Even at a war camp, mages were separated from other soldiers and watched by templars? Why? In combat against the army of darkspawn Duncan had described, mages would be using their powers, and how would any one split their attention between their paranoia over blood magic and abominations to watch both their own allies and fight for their lives against fiends from the Void itself?

Maker, I prayed silently, exhaling as the templars about-faced, feeling a rush of mixed surprise and gratitude as Duncan didn't point out that they were forgetting a mage. Grant me the patience to get through this without roasting anyone like a marshmellow. It's their problem if they're so damn prejudiced that they'll turn their backs on the enemy to watch us. Not mine. Can we keep it that way?

Prayer said, and fervently, as the last thing I wanted was to accidentally toast someone and have the templars here ready to execute me too, I turned to Duncan. "Not afraid to give a mage a little leash, huh?" I asked with pure innocence.

"We have had our share of them in the Wardens. Including maleficarum, and you are no blood mage. Besides," a smile twitched under that dark beard. "You remind me of someone."

That startled me, on more than one count.

"You can keep blood mages in the Wardens?"

"Yes. That falls under the Warden credo: Whatever it takes to achieve victory. We swear no fealty to any king and, as we fight to keep all of Thedas safe, our Right of Conscription supersedes such laws." Duncan led me into the camp, forward past the guards, to a bridge spanning a massive gorge, the Wilds spilling ruggedly as far as the eye could see over the sloping hills south of the fortress.

A bridge which the gold-armored King Cailan was crossing.

"Duncan!" the young king greeted jovially, gripping Duncan's forearm in a firm shake as the more rugged Warden returned the gesture. "Here I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun."

The king of Ferelden was stopping for a chat with us? It would seem that the title Commander of the Grey came with some influence.

"Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I will be able to fight alongside the fabled Grey Wardens after all. Glorious!" Then Cailan turned his attention on me. "And who, may I ask, is this?"

"I am Rowan, mage of the Circle, your Majesty," I answered before Duncan had a chance to politely introduce me. After all, only I could fully answer the king's question. "Rowan Mac Tir."

As I'd suspected, the revelation of my surname got a reaction. Duncan turned and gave me an imperiously questioning look, jaw tight and brow arched. Cailan's blue eyes widened for a moment, then he recovered from the surprise and gave me a smile that was downright sunny.

"Are you really?" he asked, sizing me up for a moment before reaching for my arm. I smiled faintly in return and gripped his gauntleted arm politely. The feel of his hand around my arm made me a little nervous, no matter how good a man he seemed. He felt strong enough and, especially with the heavy plate he was wearing, looked big enough to snap my bone like a twig. I gave myself another mental shake to snap myself out of it. "Yes, I can see that... You do favor him, more than Anora does. Welcome to Ostagar, dear sister-in-law."

Cailan released my arm and gave me an apologetic look that, while sincere, also managed to look as mischievous as an old friend of mine from the tower after he'd fed the templars the rumor of secret passages in the tower. Or every single time he'd 'mysteriously reappeared' at breakfast after his escapes.

"I apologize for having to stop writing, Rowan," he said. "As you can see, I've been a bit busy lately." He gestured over his shoulder to indicate the encampment and bustling soldiers.

I grinned this time. I had thought Cailan wouldn't be the same in public as he had been in our letters. Even if it was nothing personal, just a political matter of keeping up appearances, I hadn't thought he would be openly friendly with a mage. Between him and Duncan, I was getting surprised left and right today. "Yeah, I missed that too."

When Cailan had heard from Anora that she had a little sister in the Circle, he hadn't been able to understand how they had utterly abandoned me. Politics or no, family was family, he'd said, and it should have meant enough to them to keep in touch and to have respect enough to acknowledge my existence. As it was, outside of Gwaren, only very few high nobility knew of me, and it was largely accepted that I had died, likely of the same illness that had killed my mother a few years earlier. Regardless, he had respected their wishes and said nothing. He had simply begun to send me letters.

At first, it had scared me. Why in the Maker's name would the king be writing to me? Greagior and Irving had known my full identity, so the king's letters to his little sister were kept secret and didn't raise any questions, just some exasperation. It hadn't taken me long to see the good, earnest man that Cailan was – even if he did talk to me like I was a toddler at times, he made me laugh – and I had finally relaxed and come to enjoy the correspondence. The trick had been keeping Jowan and the bloody mischief maker Anders, when he wasn't playing seek and find in the countryside with the templars or in solitary, out of my mail.

"I can only imagine. I've been told more than once how fun the Circle is. Are you here to join the Wardens?" A reasonable assumption. I was with Duncan.

"No, nothing quite so noble. Just throwing in with the army."

Cailan nodded, but his expression became more grim as he gestured toward a large, dark tent across from a bright gold one. I assumed the gold one was his, which made the other... "Rowan, Loghain... He's in here. The guard is a suspicious man. Handpicked by the general for that very reason, actually," A fleeting, wry smile turned his lips. "He won't believe you if you try to tell him the truth of who you are. If you wish to speak with your father... Tell the guard I've sent you with a message."

Clever. "Does Loghain know his son-in-law is such a troublemaker?"

"Has for years," Cailan quipped brightly. "Its why he doesn't like me very much. But, Rowan, really, I need to warn you. Loghain's reaction to your being here.. It may not be quite what you're looking for. He's not a bad man, my father trusted him with his life and so do I, but..."

"I know," I interrupted, an action which seemed to surprise Duncan, but not Cailan. We had been writing for a while. He had a feel for what I was like by now. I was a troublemaker too. "Mages get that a lot, Cailan."

The contrite look that Cailan gave me was enough to say that he knew that. It was sweet of him to do his best to apologize for it anyway.

"I hate to cut this short," the king sighed and bobbed his head in farewell. "But I should get back, before your father sends out a search party for me."

And with that, my brother-in-law made his retreat into the camp, followed by a now-gossiping honor guard.

"Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir's daughter, hmm?" Duncan asked mildly. "You could have said something about that on the journey over here."

"Like you've been totally forthcoming yourself," I retorted breezily. "So I didn't feel like getting chatty about it. Does it really make a difference?"

"To me?" Duncan shrugged, making that a clear 'no, not really, my business is darkspawn'. "It's just a surprise. I've had my dealings with the man, and he's... Never mentioned anything about you."

"No, I can't imagine he has." The smile I gave this time was small and sad. I could feel the weight of it on my lips. A cool autumn breeze rifled through my sweep of black hair, and I lifted my head to it for a moment, closing my eyes and letting out a slow sigh before clicking my tongue. "Bah, politics." My eyes snapped open. "I should get to the mage's camp, or maybe hunt down a quartermaster and see if he has anything I can afford."

Duncan nodded and skimmed a hand through his hair. "I need to find my latest recruit, Alistair, and make sure no one's managed to drink themselves into alcohol poisoning in my absence." Duncan replied, turning and making for the army camp.

Standing alone in the middle of the camp, under the vaulting blue sky with armed soldiers everywhere, weapons lying about, I couldn't deny that I felt exposed in simple, ankle length cloth robes. They weren't the best for running in, and they weren't much defense against arrows or blades. And I didn't like it.

Quartermaster it was.

After an hour's searching and asking countless soldiers, all of whom eyed my robes warily, I found the quartermaster and he, in turn, robbed me blind in exchange for a set of battered leathers. Deciding that bartering definitely was not one of my talents, I tucked the new armor under my arm, found the templars, let myself be sheperded to a tent, and changed out of my robes into the light and supple scuffed leather.

Changed, I ran my hands over the front, feeling the joints and leather plates, the strong areas and the weak points. It wasn't the impenetrable kind of protection Cailan and the templars had, but it was better than cloth, and it freed up my movement in spades. I couldn't deny it. I liked it. I felt powerful for once, armored up with my dagger strapped to my hip, for the first time visible to the world. Rather like myself, actually.

I was getting to make choices for myself, ones that mattered. The feeling was intoxicating. It brought to mind a faint memory from my brief childhood in Gwaren, the first time my father had taken me from the castle to see the ocean. Well, the first time I could remember anyway. I'd gotten the same feeling standing on the docks with him, the salt spray in my face, tiny hand held tight in his huge one. At seventeen, almost eighteen years old I was feeling the excitement of a child. Over a little shopping trip. Who knew?

I was in a half-crouch on the floor, hands down in front bracing me, swinging one leg out in a sweeping motion meant to knock the legs out of any assailant when my roommate came in. And my kick almost took out Wynne's leg as she ducked into the tent. I froze, flinching at the thought of what that kind of blow would do to bones that old, and quickly tucked my legs back under me and straightened, blushing and folding my arms behind my back, the picture of innocence.

Wynne gave me an amused look before moving to her cot, sitting down and pulling the tie from the base of her short white ponytail. "Practicing for the darkspawn, are we?" Her tone was mild. I didn't think she was angry. I gave a noncommittal shrug. She, in turn, gave me a look that felt like she was spearing through me. It was unnerving. "You don't carry a staff. Why?"

"Most of my magic is... Unreliable. I'm excellent at some spells, absolutely irredeemable at others." As my mentor and I had found out the hard, very painful way. How was I supposed to guess that my spell, meant to absorb hostile magic, would instead reflect it back at the caster... And cause it to splinter and shoot everywhere? "I like to have another skill or three to get by with. I'd probably die out here if I relied on my magic. The only thing a staff would do for me is give me an extra long stick to whack things with."

A small, patient smile pulled at Wynne's lips. Yeah, there was something about this woman that spear headed home the point that I was missing out on the whole family thing. "Then tell me, my dear, if you feel you can't rely on your spells and, as a Circle mage, you're untried with that blade of yours, what brings you out here? It doesn't sound like a survival-oriented choice to me," she added gently.

I could think of a handful of honest answers to that question, and just as many ways to skirt around it. Why was I here, heedless of untried skills? Like most mages, I was small and slender, lithe and fast as a fox when I wanted to be. Physical fitness might be discouraged in the Circle, as it made it easier to run from templars, but if a girl were careful, she could find ways to maintain her body. All it took was knowing the right people and frequent requests to carry messages through the tower. Or a lazy senior enchanter and a little mastery over a strong dislike of spiders. So, while unpracticed, I did have skill, and its not as if I would be completely on my own in the midst of an army, and my first memories were of a childhood molded by Ferelden's most respected general, who had planned for me to inherit his position one day. Instinct had to have something there. There was the fact that I wanted to meet my father, whatever he had to say. Maybe it was patriotism to Ferelden, Maker knew I'd been soaked to the core in that at home.

And then there was the fact that I just wanted out of Kinloch Hold like the Chantry said the Maker had wanted out of the Golden City when the Tevinter magisters had come with their taint of pride. The Maker had fled what had become the Black City. I'd made it out of Kinloch Hold. Whatever the truth behind my reasoning really was, I knew in my heart that I would die happier if I died here on the battlefield, as free as my fellow Fereldans, than if I one day dropped of... I don't know, a dust bunny lodging itself in my throat while reading in the tower library. And that had nothing to do with the excitement of one over the other. It had to do with fresh air, a blue sky, and control over my fate versus tight routine locked within a stone phallus in the middle of a lake.

Alright, maybe I had a whole load more respect for Anders now. Briefly, I wondered where he was. Back in the tower, biding his time again, locked up, here at the camp as well? Maker knew. If any mage was kin to a fox, it was him. Or maybe a cat. He sure loved the tower's mouser.

But I didn't say any of that to Wynne. Instead, I threw myself down on my own bedroll – either the templars feared Wynne wouldn't be able to get in and out of a bedroll or as a senior enchanter, she merited an actual cot, I wasn't sure which it was – with a shrug. "I don't know."

To her credit, Wynne didn't press the issue. She simply looked at me for a moment, or until I rolled onto my side and gave her my back to stare at. I didn't bother getting out of my armor again. I liked the feel of it too much at the moment.

Belligerent? Maybe a little. But soon enough, I heard the slow, even breathing that told me she was sleeping. I wished I was so lucky. I felt wide awake and my whole body prickled uneasily. I hadn't gone to visit my father yet, and, in spite of Cailan's warning, or perhaps even because of it, I was anxious to know how badly he would react to me.

A man couldn't completely abandon his own flesh and blood, could he? I'd once been my father's shadow. I'd idolized the man, and, before he ever told me that Gwaren would be mine one day, since Anora was promised to the prince, I'd hoped to grow up to be just like him, and prayed it to the Maker every time I actually remembered to do my prayers. In fact, I could vaguely recall asking my mother once if I would be able to get armor like his one day. She'd laughed and told me I would likely always be too small for such heavy plate. She'd been right, but she'd died before I'd found my abilities. "Finding" meaning accidentally setting fire to the hair of some scruffy peasant that had tried to rob my father at swordpoint. I had known my dad, my hero and the Hero of the River Dane, could have handled it and paddled the boy with his own blade like a naughty child playing inside with a stick, but once, just this once, I'd wanted so badly to do something for my father. To do something besides hide in his shadow like a miniature wisp of the real thing.

And, lo, the Maker had given me my wish.

That was one thing I was grateful for, that she hadn't lived to see me taken from our home.

I played with the tie on my bag as my father paced before the hearth. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. His hands were clasped at his back, for once neither in his heavy armor nor the light hunting leathers he usually wore, even inside, just wearing a simple tunic and breeches. Even then, I knew the rule: No Orlesian silks in our home. He'd told Anora often enough. Me, I was happy with my cream breeches and dark blue tunic. Boy's clothes, Anora always told me, but it was what my daddy wore, it never made him mad, and it let me play. Dresses did not, not the way I played.

Maker, I thought. Please don't let me grow up and get boring like my big sister!

The fire kept his face half in light, half shadow, but I could tell by now when he was troubled and when he was just being his gruff and grumpy self. He was upset about something. Was it really about that robber? I looked down, focusing on my hands toying with the knots on my knapsack. I'd messed up before, I was six, of course I had, but I could never remember doing anything that made my daddy mad, much less for days. It'd almost been a week. The guy'd run off, he'd been screaming, yeah, but he could run. Certainly he'd found some water to put out that fire.

Where had it come from, anyway?

For my daddy to be like this, it had to have had something to do with me, and it meant something bad. My daddy was smart, so smart, but he always kept the bad things to himself for as long as he could. Well, he didn't tell me or Anora at least.

Speaking of Anora, where was she?

I wanna be like daddy, right? I scolded myself, tucking my chin to my chest at my own admonishing. Then you gotta be brave! Sitting here staring at your hands isn't doing anything! Daddy wouldn't do that!

The voice was right, and I knew it. Quick and quiet, I got up and crossed the room and was tugging on my daddy's sleeve before he could notice I'd moved. It startled him a little, which was unusual, I felt the tense before he looked down at me. Even when I surprised him, I'd never managed to... Startle or scare him. When had that changed? When I'd set that man's hair on fire?

My little fingers tightened around the cuff of his shirt. "Daddy," I asked quietly. "Did I do something bad? I'm sorry. Can I make it better?"

I'd also never managed to put him at a loss for words before. I still hadn't, but he had to think, long and hard, before he spoke. When he did, he knelt to my level, the harsh lines of his face softening into the look Anora, my mom, and I had often been on the receiving end of. In fact, it was a look he had only for us, and on occasion and to a lesser degree, King Maric and Prince Cailan. It was affection and pride, mixed with a little exasperation. In this case, I had the feeling the exasperation was at himself, for making me worry.

"No, Rowan," he said finally, voice gruff sounding as ever, like the wary growl of a mabari, but soft. He twisted his sleeve free of my grip and took both my hands in his. "You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, I think that child will think twice before he approaches anyone else that way again." A grimness settled on him with the next words, and that scared me. My daddy had only ever gotten this look, the graveyard stare, when thinking about the Rebellion, when he'd told me about my namesake, Queen Rowan, and when he talked with King Maric about how to handle Orlesian relations. Especially when King Maric wasn't listening. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he continued. "But what happened... It showed that you aren't an ordinary human." The look on my face must have been something, because he quickly backtracked on himself. "You are human, I mean. Just not like most of us. To set that man's hair on fire, it took power. Magic." He sighed and let go of my hands, clasping his on his knee instead. "You're a mage, Rowan."

I'd read about mages. Between those stories and the things I heard when I went to Denerim with my dad and Anora, I knew what was coming next. I'd assumed he'd had me pack because we were heading to Denerim again soon. But...

"I'm being sent away?" I asked in a voice that sounded tiny even to myself. My heart went from thudding painfully behind my ribs to sitting so still I could barely breathe. My daddy wouldn't do that to me, would he? There had to be some way I could stay. He was the second most powerful man in Ferelden, and the king's best friend. I was his heir, and more importantly, his daughter. Didn't that mean more than the rules of a religion?

Apparently not, because two templars chose that moment to step into the room, sparing my father from further explanation.

I fought them. I was young and I was tiny, but the whole point was that I was tiny, and even then I moved like a weasel. The templars would get a hold on me only for me to twist out of the grip of their bulky armor time and again, but they were too good to let me get around them to try to run.

"Rowan."

My daddy's voice stopped me. I stopped struggling in the grip of one of the templars and looked up at him. I could feel the hope in me, that he would step in and stop this from happening. Until I saw the expression on his face. Blank. There might have been a brief flicker of pride in those eyes as pale as mine, but it was there and gone so fast I couldn't be sure.

"Stop. You have to go with them. You're being trained as a mage of the Circle of Magi now."

Those two sentences sucked the fight right out of me. I felt tears prick at my eyes, run hot over my cheeks as, relatively sure I wasn't going to try to kick him again or run away, one of the templars took my hand firmly and the other retrieved my bag. My father didn't move as they took me from the castle and the one holding my hand lifted me onto his horse in front of him. I didn't see Anora at all.

Twisting around to see past the templar's bulky armor, I stared as first my home, then my entire hometown passed away behind us as we rode onto the Brecillian Passage. It was the first time I'd felt completely alone.

It wasn't the last.

I woke up with tears clinging to my lashes and my arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Blinking, I tried to pinpoint when I'd fallen asleep, but, as that meant thinking about the memory I'd relived in dream form, the hollow cold that rose up inside me put a stop to that, and I sat up. Irritably wiping my eyes with the back of my new glove, I found my satchel sitting on top of my discarded robes, reached past Cullen's parting gift to feel the brush of old, cheaply made Ferelden silk. A faint smile touched my lips as I pulled out an eleven year old child's tunic, the color blue that burned at the heart of a flame with black embroidery. I let the worn fabric slide over my fingers, wondering, not for the first time, how do we find out who we really are? Who decides what happens to us? I hadn't asked to be born a mage, but a lot of what shaped my thoughts and feelings was my upbringing in the tower and how my family had, essentially, given me away.

What happens when you fight fate?

I closed a fist around the cool, watery cloth and smiled grimly. It was about time I got the answer to that question. I got up, tossing my old shirt back down over my satchel. Wynne wouldn't bother it, if she woke up before I got back. I glanced up. Yeah, she was still asleep. I rolled my shoulders to loosen the muscles that weren't too happy about having slept in armor, and walked out of the tent into weak early morning light.

It was about time I went and talked to my father.

I found it funny that his tent was right around the corner from the mage's miniature stronghold, and Cailan's directly across from it. With all the paranoia mundanes showed about my kind, why were they keeping us so close to their leaders? What about blood mages in disguise, with their mind control? Hypocrites. All of them. They were keeping us so close so we could be there in seconds to defend the most important people in the camp, I was sure of it.

As I approached the guard of Loghain's tent, I was suddenly profoundly glad I had changed out of my robes. No fool would go around an army camp unarmed, so the knife was overlooked, but I had the distinct impression from the way he was staring me down even as I walked up that a mage would not be getting in to see the Teyrn. Maker, even with Cailan's excuse, it looked like I'd be lucky to as it was. The pinched look to his face told me he would probably ask for me to give him this message so he could deliver it, or for me to tell him if I claimed it was verbal.

Yeah, my father sure seemed to be a friendly guy.

"Hail!" I greeted with false cheer. "Lovely morning, isn't it?" It had no effect on this guy, so I smiled in what I hoped was a convincing way. "The king wanted me to deliver a message to Teyrn Loghain. Is he inside?" I pointed helpfully at the tent. See me? See how harmless? Now stop looking at me like that and let me in.

The scruffy guard gave me a brief once-over. "You the king's latest dalliance, huh?" he grunted, looked at my face, then quailed. "Don't know how he can do that." I was hoping my sister just showed in my face, and that it should be creepy cheating on the woman with someone who looked like her. My ego didn't like the other option. "Go in, make it quick."

Somehow, I had the feeling that this would indeed be quick, and that I would have very little to do with that fact. And, considering my nightmare of a memory and being mistaken for my brother-in-law's mistress, if my luck kept going this way, my eviction would be over crossed blades.

I passed him and slipped into the tent.

It was gloomy in there. Our castle in Gwaren had been a bit gloomy, what with the lack of windows for enemy archers to put arrows through. I let the flap fall shut behind me. My father was up, of course, and in the same armor I remembered, dark gray, heavy plate. His back was to me when I entered, bowed over a map on a thin table that might well double as his cot. He'd always been serious about his duty, it wouldn't shock me if he slept on it.

I didn't have to say a word, of course. He had heard me come in. Shoulder length black hair was brushed absently back from a pale and prematurely lined, yet strong face, pale blue eyes as fierce and consistently annoyed as I remembered them. He'd gone into the turn with a growl of, "For the last time, Cailan-" but had broken off abruptly when he saw me. No introduction was necessary. I could see the war that started straight away behind those eyes. Surprise. Remembered affection. Nostalgia. Regret? Maybe a little anger? Dread?

I crossed my arms and offered an empty and placid smile. I wanted to hold myself to no expectations with this encounter. I did not want to get disappointed. It was just something I had to do. As long as it was done... Nothing had to come of it. I was here to fight darkspawn. I just needed to see what would happen in case I died doing it.

But in my heart of hearts, I wanted this to go well. I wanted that so badly it hurt.

"Long time no see, Pa."


	4. Seems Like Fate

Chapter Four: Seems Like Fate

Even though I had never called Loghain 'Pa', it worked to push him back to sentient speech. Large, armored hands clenched impotently at his sides as the wheels in his mind started turning at a fast and furious rate.

"You... Rowan. What are you doing here?"

"The same thing the rest of you are. Getting ready to fight darkspawn." I really wasn't trying to be an ass. It just happened that way.

"I meant," his jaw snapped shut with a click of his teeth and he let out a slow breath. "I meant, how did you get here? We already had mages here, how did you get from the Circle?"

"Duncan. He went and got a few more mages. I volunteered." I looked at him, trying to figure out which emotions were from shock and which were genuine. "You haven't seen or heard from me in over a decade. Don't I merit a better welcome than this?"

My father had never been a demonstrative man. One had to know him to pick up his affection, his praise, approvals, and even his smiles, since he so rarely did so outright. They had to be found in the color of his eyes, whether nearly the silver of a misty moon or color of a steel sword, a dry turn of phrase, an odd gift or more often a test, or subtle suggestions. So, no, I hadn't for one moment expected a hug or a kiss on the cheek. No, then I would have been convinced my father had gotten soft or senile or both in his years. But maybe I had thought he would sound a little more relieved and warm, wouldn't be standing with a stiffness that spoke of a rabid internal debate, and with a dash less of the offended, 'why are you here'.

Maybe I hadn't expected him to stare at me like a stranger darkening his doorstep while he was, in essence, everything I remembered.

It seemed I'd done a stellar job keeping my hopes down.

My question silenced him for a moment, however, and finally the knot in his back seemed to loosen and he cleared his throat, unable to meet my eyes as he said, "You're right. It's been a long time. Have you been well?"

Small talk. Wonderful. "I passed my Harrowing. I'm not sick often. I excel in combative magic and spells, but can't heal or use trap spells without a nasty backfire." I shrugged. "What are you asking to hear with that question? That I've missed you, Gwaren, and even Anora? That templars are pretty damn scary to a little girl, and most still aren't all that great to a nearly grown woman?" I was on a roll now. "If those are the kinds of things you're going to ask, how about you let me go first? How's it been without me? Have you missed me, thought about me? Do I have a half sibling to replace me as heir? Am I still your daughter, or just the nameless 'Circle mage'?" My voice cracked on that last one, but I hurriedly steadied it. This was a man to show no weakness in front of. He would jump on it like a wolf.

So disguise hurt as anger. And that's what I did.

Loghain didn't answer any of my questions. Just as well, I guess, most of them where a little rhetorical. He just shook his head, bringing his hands up to message his temples.

"You shouldn't be here," he said grimly. "You're not taking part in the battle."

"You think?" I asked coolly. The words were out of my mouth a split second before I remembered that this was Cailan's trusted general. He could very easily decide where he wanted to put me when this upcoming battle hit. And I highly doubted this was the kind of thing Cailan could step into without making himself look really bad.

I stiffened and met his gaze. "What is it to you if I'm in the fight or not? If the darkspawn aren't stopped here, odds are I'll die eventually. I say, better to die here, sooner, fighting like a Fereldan, than die running back to the tower like a frightened child.

My father pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Go. I'm not using you in the battle. I have no use for you. This discussion is over with."

Yeah, it was. And the whole thing had been an utter waste of time. I stormed out of the tent and brushed past the guard, who looked surprised that the woman he assumed to be 'with' the king could be in a temper like that of a dragon.

At least I wasn't spitting fire. I had the Circle and their discipline to thank for that.

Was my father really that ashamed? I'd told Cailan that I had known he wouldn't necessarily be thrilled to see me. I understood that a lot of people didn't trust mages to control their magic and to keep away demons. I understood that, because of this, he wouldn't necessarily like having a mage child marring his reputations publicly. But this was a war camp, far away from the arls and banns of the Bannorn, and I had come to see him privately. I wasn't after my inheritance, Maker, I wasn't looking for him to announce me to Ferelden like some sort of noble debutant, I'd merely hoped to find my father and speak to him. I'd wanted to see that I still had family, like any other person in Thedas.

Now he had denied me that peace of mind, and, for some spiteful reason, he was going to keep me away from the fight, and, as soon as he could manage it, most likely find a way to get me back to the tower.

I was not going back to the tower. I didn't care if that meant slipping off into the Wilds to join the Chasind, either to die at their hand or be assumed dead, or jumping off that bridge into the gorge and making that theoretical death a reality.

I wasn't sure if it was last night or this morning that I had officially made up my mind, but I'm pretty sure that conversation with Wynne had been the catalyst. When I'd chosen to fight fate and see what happened, it meant I no longer intended to be collared and oppressed. I was going to be an equal, and I was going to prove that I wasn't afraid of templars or anyone else, even if it killed me trying.

My father included.

Now I had to find a way to stay here. A way that didn't involve crying to Cailan. I had no interest in abusing the only family member I had that actually seemed to like me.

But Maker, did that leave me short on options.

My feet had carried me blindly into the heart of the soldiers' camp. I guess with my armor the guards posted just assumed I was one of the men. Huh. Maybe that would be a good solution, to lose myself in the faces of the other soldiers and slip among their ranks. Loghain couldn't tell me what to do if he couldn't find me.

Was I really going to play seek and find with my father, like I was six again?

Frustration was fast building into a headache and twitchy fingers. If I kept a lid on it for too long, I'd be burning tents down. Fists clenched, I lashed out and kicked a rock, cuffing it clear off the ground and sending it flying.

A second later, I heard the clank of stone on metal, the hollow ring of a shield.

"Whoa! Sorry! Having a bad day, are we?"

My head snapped up to see a young man standing with his shield raised, presumably to deflect any more flying pebbles I sent his way. It was a templar shield, but, oddly enough, he wasn't wearing the templar armor. He had short blond hair, spiked up at the front, and big brown eyes the color of chocolate. Like a puppy's.

Some of the anger ebbed. Something about his tentative smile – and the way he refused to put the shield down, as though he expected me to unleash a hail of rocks at him – made me feel a little guilty, even if my attack had been accidental.

"Yeah, you could say that," I agreed, crossing my arms. "You can put that down. I was just letting off some steam, I didn't know anyone was standing in fallout zone." I offered him a brief smile. "I'm Rowan."

"Alistair, of the Grey Wardens." The young man grinned, then slipped his shield back across his back, to accompany his sword. "I'm currently their newest recruit, although we've got two more here waiting to be... Uhh... Tested." He quickly changed the subject, as though he had gotten too close to mentioning something he shouldn't have. "I joined six months ago. Where do you hail from?"

"The Circle of Magi." It was the least painful answer I could give.

Well, for me anyway. Alistair flinched. "The Maker must have made sure you winged that rock at me then. Mages never have liked me." At my raised brow, he quickly hurried on to explain. "Duncan recruited me from the Denerim Chantry. I was about to take my final vows as a templar."

He still looked nervous, but I had already made up my mind about him. Would-be templar or no, he did remind me of a puppy. Hopeful, loyal, and basically one of the only things still right in this world. Honor and civility practically radiated from him, and civic duty was his native tongue. But, for my own entertainment, I gave him a once-over anyway, rubbing my chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm... To be completely honest... Alistair, wasn't it? I think you'd have made an awful templar. You should thank Duncan when you see him."

Yeah, that caught him off guard alright. His head jerked up and he stared at me for a moment before breaking into a grin. Someone who recognized my jokes? Maker be praised!

"You're telling me," he replied, a laugh apparent in his voice. "I was sent to scour the pots more times than I can count. And that's a lot, I can count pretty high."

I grinned, tension leeching from me like water from a rusty pail. "I guess you're happy to be a Warden then, aren't you?"

"Thankful and proud," he confirmed, bobbing his head. "Wait... Are you that Circle mage that Duncan was talking about? The one who reminded him of a Warden friend of his over in Weisshaupt? That's right! That's why your name sounded familiar."

"He was talking about me, was he?" I felt a little embarrassed about that, but I didn't let it show. Who did I remind him of, I had to wonder. "Nothing bad, I hope."

"Depends on how you define 'bad'." Alistair moved closer, seeming to decide I wasn't going to attack again. "He said you'd probably make a good recruit, though. As of now, we don't have any mage Wardens. He wanted to invite you to join us, but he said something about some... Complications?"

If I had to guess, the big, looming complication here would be Loghain.

"Become a Warden?" Maybe I'd just found a way around him. And a spiteful shot at his distrust. He didn't like the Grey Wardens. I remembered him ranting about it before I was sent away, that they had returned from Orlais and that they were here to weaken Ferelden. I didn't believe it. Everything I'd ever read about them said that they were, essentially, everywhere and had only one mission: To stop Blights. Duncan had said that they swore no fealty to a lord, so why would his paranoia have any weight?

It didn't. But as a Warden, Duncan would have the final say on what I did here. Not my father.

"What if I said I was interested? In becoming a Grey Warden?" I asked Alistair cautiously. "Would it be too much trouble for Duncan?"

"If you're sure about this, I can take you to talk to him about it," Alistair replied. "We need the recruits, he's been worried about that. I think he would take you. You just..." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Becoming a Grey Warden isn't something that can be undone. It's a lifelong commitment. If you don't feel like fighting darkspawn until the day you die... Go back to the army."

Again, that pained look that said he'd talked about more than he should have. So, the Wardens had secrets, did they? Fine. I would accept that. If it was what I had to do to be useful and to keep my freedom, then so be it. The chance I'd gotten back at the tower might have been unexpected, but now that I'd grabbed hold, there was no way I was letting this go without a fight.

"I'm sure," I told him.

Alistair led me through the camp to the Warden's area, which seemed even shabbier than the regular army encampment, made up of tents that had obviously weathered many storms and traveled many miles of rough terrain. The faces around us were rugged and scarred, rather like the tents, but stoic under an outer light of camaraderie as they talked and laughed together. The Warden texts I'd read had often called them brothers in arms, and here I could see it. Family, belonging, the closedness of a circle of men that plainly said that only those on the inside really understood. Yes, Alistair had been lucky. The templars at the Circle had been nothing like this.

Maker, most of the mages at the Circle had been nothing like this, joined together in one prison and one dual gift and curse or no. I'd found exceptions with Jowan and, if he could have kept out of trouble and stayed at the tower for more than a week, probably Anders, but for the most part, being in the Circle was an every mage for himself experience. It was all about protecting oneself from the templars, making sure he had nothing they could threaten him with.

Within the walls of Kinloch Hold, the innocent little 'thing' I had for Cullen was a huge risk I was taking. In comparison, people out here took their relationships for granted.

Duncan stood beside a large campfire, arms crossed over the breastplate of the strange contraption that was his armor, staring into the popping flames.

"Duncan," Alistair called, moving forward to stop a few feet from his Commander. "I brought someone who would like to talk to you."

Duncan looked around to me, standing at Alistair's shoulder, hands on my hips. Took in the cocky stance, the wry grin on my lips. "Did you give up on the army already, Lady Rowan?"

"Just Rowan, please, Ser Duncan." The dry tease over my heritage didn't sit well. I hoped no one ever called me 'Lady' again. "And more like I had a talk with my father. It seems the army has no use for someone like me." I tilted my head. "Do the Wardens?"

"You wish to join the order?" I could almost see Duncan's gaze sharpen in curiosity as he turned to face me fully, strands of dark hair that had slipped his ponytail framing his temples. "I warn you, this is not a path for the faint of heart. It is a dangerous one, and one you will walk for the rest of your days. It may, in fact, even come to define you more than your magic."

"I'm sure. If this is what it'll take for me to be useful, then I am willing."

"You may never be able to return to the tower."

"And that's a loss?"

"Nor will you be able to return home."

"Gwaren? Please, Duncan, we both knew that was never happening."

The Warden Commander looked at me for a long moment, considering my response carefully before finally nodding.

"Alright. You will take the Joining with Ser Jory and Daveth. When the time comes to prepare, I will tell Alistair and we will begin," he tacked on an afterthought. "You should go collect your things. Alistair will help you get a tent and get settled into our camp."

Wynne was sitting on her cot when I slipped back into the tent, knitting something with pale yellow yarn. I nodded to her when she glanced up at me, but when I grabbed my satchel and old tunic the click of the long needles stopped as she scrutinized me in earnest.

"Where are you going now?" she asked. "Surely you aren't fool enough to try to run away? Those woods are thick with darkspawn, Chasind, and beasts. You wouldn't last out there alone."

Not about to admit that I had indeed thought about doing such a thing, I tied my satchel back around my waist, stuffing the old shirt back inside. "I'm joining the Grey Wardens. Their Commander is having me move into their camp."

That didn't seem to be an answer she'd expected. White brows rose and lips painted a stately pale red thinned in thought.

"The Wardens. That is quite the commitment. Are you certain you're up for it?"

If I wasn't, it seemed it was a little late to be regretting my decisions now. I gave Wynne a tight smile. She seemed a decent enough woman. Decent enough that I wished she had been my mentor at the tower. I could have done with some exposure to her kind of patient guidance.

"Maker be with you, Wynne. I'll see you on the battlefield."


End file.
